Perpetual's Twilight

“Harry, don’t do anything rash.” Hermione knew this face. She had seen it a few times during her life. It was the face of heavenly retribution. The hammer of justice. It was the face that had cleaned out Knockturn, filled up Azkaban and eradicated even the last trace of the Death Eater cult, in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts. Pure, unadulterated, righteous wrath.

“He slaughtered us. Called us blights upon mankind. I knew he was a deceiver. I knew he was an opportunist, blinded by his arrogance and self-importance. But this?” he let the small soulstones hover above the chest. “These are symbols of what he made war against us for. The exact type of magic he used as propaganda. Yet, here we stand, looking at his own. Millions died, countless magical species found their end, our cultures and monuments were razed from the Earth, because we held power such as this in our hand. It tells me one thing, and one thing only. It wasn’t magic he despised. It was not ruling over it.”

“He failed as Grindelwald. Seems what it all boils down to, was him not forgiving that slight.” Ron’s face was a grimace like Harry’s. They had all lost loved ones and loved things, in the war of magic. “You want to call him out, don’t you?”

“Still, we cannot forget that we plan to make peace.” Hermione insisted. “Whatever you do, do gently.”

Harry nodded, grinning. “I think I know what to do.”

It was silent in his chambers. Not for the first time since his awakening did Roboute Guilliman bemoan the fact that as a Primarch his metabolism simply neutralized alcohol. Just like it should deal with his headache, yet he felt pain behind his temple, ever since he had to listen to the High Lords’ complaints. Again.

Over and over again, by any cyclic measurement of time, they relentlessly ruined his ability for patience. None of them understood, fundamentally, what was at stake. They nodded and sometimes even agreed when he told them, but they didn’t understand.

Sometimes he feared that they heard him, like he had heard his father. Concepts too large to comprehend, battering their minds with floods of implications too big, too vast to even hope to understand. Much like him, the High Lords might think that some of it was madness. The mad prattle of an ancient brain, too burdened by the past to see the present for what it was.

Sometimes he feared they were right.

He listened to his adjutants, about the lawlessness on Necromunda, as if that hadn’t been a problem for millennia, perpetually solving itself. Listening was an exaggeration anyway. He was present for the report, and let the rituals and protocols commence. He would read it later.

The reports he so eagerly awaited had yet to appear. Their astropaths and navigators speak of a one-eyed hand in the warp, guiding them alongside the Astronomican. Better even. Their psykers spoke of guidelines, and the beginnings of a sort of mapping of the Warp. It was unthinkable, impossible, and yet, reality.

It came from his very own realm’s backyard, too. Ultramar was dangerously close to the Black Reef, where first reports said now existed an impenetrable solar system, housing what seems to be humans with unfathomable technology at their service.

Abominable Intelligence, the archmagos hypothesized. It amused Roboute like few other things, when Belisarius Cawl was grasping at straws. Shouting heresy at everything you didn’t understand was the first sign that the Mechanicus had little to no idea what they were looking at. It was as amusing as it was worrisome.

Another worry on the pile.

“Lord Regent?”

Roboute looked up, and saw that he was alone. The adjutants had been excused by his silent dismissal. They knew not to linger once their reports were done.

“Lord Regent, sire?”

Roboute eyed the bolter pistol under his desk. “Who goes there? Show yourself.” he commanded.

“Ah, of course. Excuse me, sire, down here.”

Roboute leaned over his desk, and indeed, he saw what he first identified as the smallest and ugliest Aeldari he had ever seen. Barely the size of his powerarmor’s fist, with ears as long as it’s face and nose, greyish skin and decidedly too unbothered by being in his chambers, uninvited. Clad in white and golden robes, and a triangular crest on its chest, the creature seemed like an official envoy. It held in its hand a small scroll, which it held out to him. “Message for Lord Commander Roboute Guilliman, regent of the Imperium? I did come to the right address, did I?”

“You did, mutant.”

“Not a mutant, sire,” the small being bowed slightly, “a houseelve. Dobby, if it pleases you, sire. Personal adjutant of the Herald of Death, and regent of Elysium, Harry Potter. I have been asked to bring this message to you, posthaste. A matter of diplomacy, by my understanding.”

“I know no Harry Potter who dares call themselves the regent of Elysium.”

“Oh, pardon me, sire. You would know it by the name of The Black Reef. The system Elysium, not that poor and battered world under your rightful rule.”

Roboute narrowed his eyes at the little creature. Finally, he took the scroll from it, rolled it out and read the short message. With every sentence, his eyes widened.

Honoured Lord Commander; Primarch Roboute Guilliman,

Ever since my people have revealed themselves to the wider galaxy, I have wished to speak to you on matters of peace, of war and of the future of mankind. In fact, of the future of all life capable of peace in the galaxy.

At this time, you must have received a variety of communication about our first interventions. Be assured that we act in the interest of mankind as a whole. We are enemies of the legions of Chaos, Orks and the Tyranid swarms - the threats that seek to destroy mankind, and all others who seek to live in this galaxy. Our diplomatic reach is far, and diverse. We have sent envoys to the T’au Empire, the Silent King of the Necron, the Aeldari, the Leagues of Votann, and many more.

You have experienced yourself what an alliance across the species can achieve. You would not read this letter, had it not been for such an alliance. Enlightenment yet awaits. The dawn of a new golden age of mankind - of a golden age for all who seek peace, is on the horizon. One question remains.

Will you, Primarchs, be part of it?

Guilliman stared at the words before him, and felt stumped by them. They were bold, and what seemed like an invitation hid a most daring threat beneath them. This faction would act with or without the Imperium. They just required an answer to this question.

He pondered it. Yes or No, seemed an easy thing to answer. In this case, it was the very core question of this Imperium. Yes, without the Ynnari, he would not be the Regent, right now. This, he freely admitted.
 
“Lord Regent, do you have a message fo…?” the little houselve stopped mid-sentence. Its ears perked up, and with a sharp intake of breath, it shrugged. “Ah, nevermind. It seems the Herald desires accelerated communications, and has come to receive your answer himself. Very well, it has been a pleasure. I wish you good luck, and continued health, sire.”

With that it vanished like a popped bubble, not into the webway or any such place. It was just gone. Roboute had no time to wonder, though. Thunderclouds gathered over Terra, and the sky blackened with them to make day into night. Even within his chambers the temperature fell dramatically, and when he looked out the windows, he saw snow where just a minute ago, rain had fallen.

The doors flew open, and one of his own Astarte came running into the chamber. “My Lord. The Imperial Palace is under attack. The Companions call for aid.”

Roboute once more glanced at the letter. “Under attack? Elaborate.”

“Sight has been obscured by black smoke. There have been dozens of Custodes incapacitated. The Adeptus Sororitas is on the march.”

“I would assume so are our marines?” Roboute asked, already knowing the answer. Of course, they were. Ultramarines and Imperial Fist were in close proximity to the Palace, always. He was making his way to the nearest Thunderhawk that could bring him to the Imperial Palace, while his personal guard rallied around him. “Incapacitated, you said?”

“Yes, my Lord. There have been no casualties at the time of the last reports.” the Sergeant answered, thought for a moment, and then said. “Although, some Custodes are found with painted faces, and armour in bright colours, my Lord.”

Harry walked through the bowels of the Imperial Palace; the dungeons beneath it, where He sat waiting. He could feel the psychic storms around him, trying and failing to keep him at bay. Labrys was afraid, and that made Harry smile.

His time was limited. Fred and George could only keep the Custodes occupied for so long, until eventually someone would understand that they were being fooled.

His disguise as a servitor worked splendidly. He just cleaned the floors, was all. Nobody paid attention to the human machine, as much as someone might pay attention to a broom, or light switch. Sororitas sprinted past him, towards the supposed battle. Astarte of the Imperial Fist pushed him aside, as they began to barricade the holiest of sanctum of humanity.

He mopped the soulstone over the floor with his raggedy broom. Was it petty? Absolutely. Did he take great delight from treating the Emperor’s soul as rubbish? Absolutely. The soul within jittered. It knew it was close to where it belonged.

Even from the Custodes, a sneer was the most attention he garnered. He wondered how Ron and Hermione would fare with the Blood Angels. He supposed that their most sacred chapel would also show the same oversights in security. Then again, would deception even be needed with Dante?

It was needed here. To get through to the Emperor, one must get through the Administratum, the Ecclesiarchy, the Adeptus Custodes, and a plethora of others who deem themselves worthy of deciding who was and who wasn’t welcome here.

Then again, he was just a little servitor, beneath the notice of most humans on Terra, and definitely beneath all who regularly walk these halls. With the occasional twist of the finger, he wordlessly cast Alohomora on gates he should not be able to walk through.

His disguise brought him to the last gate, easily opened. Behold, his majesty the Emperor, upon his golden throne. Pitiful, really. A skeleton with some cybernetics attached to it. The machine that still functions without maintenance that no one alive would know how to perform. The torture device of an entire people, one thousand of them sacrificed to it, every day.

Harry closed the gate behind him, but he knew that from now on he was on a timer. There was no conceivable way in which they wouldn’t notice, even a servitor who wasn’t meant to be here. This was the most holy sanctum, after all. The very core of humanities faith.

He still swept the soulstone ahead of him, up to the first stairs of the throne, where he stared up towards Labrys of Anatolia. At least one third of him, anyway. His mind was still trapped in the Warp. His soul was among dust and grime, on the floor. Only his body, what was left of it, remained on the throne.

Harry just smiled when he felt a blade at his throat. He stared up as the bowed, broken servitor, and gazed upon an angel with his milky eyes. His mouth opened, cables and wires ripping out of illusionary flesh, black blood streaming from the mouth that should no longer function. Yet, in his best conversational voice, he greeted, “Ah, what a pity. My hope was that our subterfuge would last longer. Alas. Sister Celestine, I am humbled to stand in your presence, yet saddened, because I fear you will not permit me here.”

The Saint kicked his broom away, including the stone among the rubbish. What no doubt should have been, and would have been an intimidating pose, now brought Harry to hold his mouth, lest he would fall into uncontrollable giggles. He certainly snorted a laugh, and waved her off. He couldn’t stay serious like this.

Neither gore nor other horror would faze someone like the Living Saint, but a servitor barely keeping from laughing in her face? That got her to at least narrow her eyes in confusion. “Who are you?” she demanded, “You are no servitor, so much is clear.” Her blade was still around his neck, ready to sever it with a single twist of her arm.

“No, indeed, I am not. Pardon my amusement, but the Living Saint Celestine kicking the soul of her god into the dust is truly the peak of irony.”

“You speak nonsense! Who are you!? Answer!” she shouted at him, white light streaming from her eyes, wings and armour to burn away the heretic.

Harry humoured her, and made the illusion vanish, as if she burned it away by her radiance. In truth, he basked in it. It lifted his spirits, to stand so close to such devotion. After all, he was but the other side of the coin she worshipped.

Before her large black wings spread out, a man clad in black robes of etherial make and a wooden staff with black quartz tip appeared. Green shining eyes partly hidden by a veil gently gazed upon her in pride. “The stories were true, then. You are one of a kind.” He removed his hood, and bowed before her in a wide, lavish introduction, not caring if her sword carved through cloth or flesh. “I am the Herald of Death, the warden of souls and guardian of the living. May I ask you something? Have you been here before? Have you seen the corpse of your Emperor, before? Do you know what happens in the bowels of this very throne?”

Celestine kept her blade where it was, aimed at his jugular. Though his absolute non-reaction to her threat, his free movement with a sword at his throat, let her pause. Harry watched as her hair turned a pure, diamond white, standing so close to the Emperor’s psychic storm. There was power here that few could withstand, and none without any trace of it, bar such creatures as himself. It answered his first question. She hadn’t been here, before.

“I know of the tithe,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “They may count themselves lucky to be chosen for such a cause, despite their inherent flaw.”

“Flaw or gift is a matter of perspective. Being sacrificed to prolong the inevitable may seem a worthy cause, in the absence of options. I prefer them as Augurs, Seers, Oracles. People who have a direct connection to the storms of souls that humanity unleashes in the warp. Eons ago, my people sought them out, taught them the ways of the shamans. Alas, too little, too soon, it seems.”

“They are beacons to daemons, inviting them into the world. They only bring suffering. I’ve seen what their heresy summons onto us!”

“Do you expect a scared animal not to bite? Do you expect the untrained artisan to not make mistakes? Are you a heretic if you pray wrong, never having heard another prayer? They are heretics through the hypocrisy of the galaxy. Through his hypocrisy.” Harry pointed at the corpse upon the throne. “You think him infallible, but he is but a man. Ancient, sure, but ultimately just a man. Born not far from here, in a place that had once been called Anatolia.”

The psychic storms raged through the throne room, blasting any and all who stand in it. Harry doubted that even the Living Saint would be capable of withstanding, and so he cast a subtle spell, protecting them both. She didn’t notice, except that the weight of the Emperor’s will lessened. “He is afraid,” Harry stated. “Needlessly so. I didn’t come here to kill him. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Says the one sneaking into the throne room assisted by witchcraft.” Celestine’s voice was as strong as ever, but he saw that she was frantic in her thoughts, trying to make sense of this being before her.

“Mmh, yes, witchcraft. Wizardry too. Accio soulstone. Catch.”

Not even looking, Celestine caught the stone that shot at her. However, the moment she touched it, Celestine fell to her knees, stunned, her face twisted in the horror of realization.

“Feel it, now? The soul of Labrys of Anatolia. His real name, by the way.”

“But-” she grasped the stone closer to her heart, “I felt him- in the Warp, he is…”

“His mind is in the warp. His body is on this throne. His soul, you hold in your hands. It was a desperate gamble he took, faced with the destruction of his Imperium by the hands of his once beloved son, Horus. He used a trick out of my people’s book, to separate his soul, making it untouchable by daemons or heretics. I would applaud him, had he not tried to annihilate us because of this sort of magic.” Harry kneeled down to her, and gently took her by the shoulder. He felt her shivering, and once more admired her steadfast character. Even holding the soul of her god in hands, she remained present and steady. “Want to help me? Give him new strength? The Fates knows he needs it.”

“Why sneak in?” she shook her head, confused. “Why this charade?”

“You see, we two did not part on good terms. In a divine sense, he is my brother. He is the leader of mankind, and I am the leader of magekind.” He grinned. “I sneaked in because I can. His ego needs to know that I could, if I wanted to. He had believed himself infallible before, which proved to be his downfall.”

She stared at the stone in her hand. “You are not lying.” she whispered, barely believing her own words. “How? What do I do?”

“I cannot touch it. I would absorb the soul and deliver it to the afterlife. Take it. Ascend up to him, and let his soul find its way. I can think of only a few as suited for this task as you. Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”

With reverence, she stood, holding the stone in her hands so lovingly, as if it were her child. Harry needed not say another word. She knew he spoke the truth, and she knew what monumental task she was about to fulfil. Step by step, she ascended. Harry was not far behind her, watching as the Living Saint brought the soul and body of her god ever closer together.

Once she stood right before him, she hesitated. Saint Celestine, hesitating. Harry felt like he was watching a particularly rare natural phenomenon.

“Just hold it out, and let go.” he encouraged her.

The stone hovered from her hands, slowly towards the Emperor’s chest. The psychic storms had halted, as if He too was holding his breath. Soon enough, the soul; that glimmering spark of life, removed itself from the stone, and vanished into the corpse before them. Harry saw it take root, and begin to repair what ten millenia had destroyed. It would take time.

Celestine did not see. She knelt before him, bowing her head. “What now, Herald?” she demanded. Whirling around, in confusion and rage, having lost the warmth of his soul in her hands, she once more shouted at him. “What now?!”

“Do you want to answer that?”

Skeletal hands wrapped around Celestine’s, grasping her gently, squeezing them in silent gratitude.

“HERALD.” psychic winds rumbled through the throne room. “HARRY. FRIEND. TRICKSTER.”

Celestine now truly shook. She trembled all over, her body giving out under the gentle pressure of a skeleton’s hand, holding her own. Her god had awoken, and spoke to them loud and clear.

“BROTHER.” the Emperor called into the halls. “SHOW. HER. FAITHFUL. CELESTINE. YOUR DREAMS.”

Harry smiled at him. Labrys, the arrogant, egotistical, foolish idiot. Emperor and Builder of human resilience and power. The man who had tried to be Atlas, and almost succeeded. “Get well soon, Labrys. There is much to be done.” He gently pried her hand from the Emperor’s, and took it in his own. “It will be a few years, until his body has fully recovered. Celestine. The long night will soon be over. He commanded, but I ask you. Do you want to see my dreams?”

She just nodded, stunned by the thought alone. The Emperor had held her hand. He had commanded her, directly. Not over messages from the warp, but a telepathic message, from a working brain, a working body. A healing body, if this black winged angel was to be believed. “Show me,” she breathed out, and found herself whisked away in a nauseating whirlwind of colours and space.